


Hopeless Convictions

by acosmist_t



Series: Fred Weasley One Shots [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acosmist_t/pseuds/acosmist_t
Summary: It was painful, jarring, but it made a flash of recognition pass through his lens; tears halting, the world halting, to see this moment. Seconds froze and minutes toppled and hours crashed into each other as you stared at him, as you pushed a little harder.There would be more than one kind of bruise today.-Children have no place in war, but sometimes, it is unavoidable, and all that’s left are hollow promises and fleeting bits of comfort. Set after Fred and George comfort Michael in OOTP.
Relationships: Fred Weasley/Reader
Series: Fred Weasley One Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020793
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Hopeless Convictions

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 2.8k
> 
> Warnings: angst, fluff, umbitch’s quill but none are explicit
> 
> a/n: i was about to post this but then my computer deleted it and now i want to cry. if you catch the ending meaning, i’m here to assure you that it means exactly what you think it does

**_“He who wishes to fight must first count the cost.”_ **

\- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Contrary to popular belief, Fred Weasley had a lot of fears.

First up, claustrophobia; it plagued him since he was little, the fear of being stuck in a small space, brutal as a thunderbolt. He never wanted to be trapped—because being trapped meant having your life, your entire soul, reduced to a pathetic recreation, and there would be no escape.

Being trapped meant he was nothing.

That was another fear of his—being nothing and no one. He had George to soothe it, to remind him that he wasn’t so alone. In fact, Fred was so great that whatever celestial beings who were in charge of determining fate couldn’t confine him to one person. They blessed him with his mirror image, his opposite, his best friend.

Fred would never be alone. Never be lost in the dark.

And perhaps the most unsurmountable of phobias and fears: the future. It terrified him beyond compare.

Life was a train that never fully slowed, never fully halted, and the passengers could only hope that at every stop, they wouldn’t be tempted to get off. That even if they needed a breath of fresh air, or maybe a snack, they couldn’t leave the train, because then the train would leave them.

And if life left you behind, there was no chance of being able to catch back up.

Thankfully, he had you to assuage that one.

Because he knew that even if he just wanted to feel solid ground beneath his feet, you would hold open the doors, making sure the train waited for him to board once more. That’s the promise that was always held strong between the two of you: you’ll wait. Even when wrinkles formed and muscles ached and logic screamed at you to save yourself—you would wait for the other.

Until the end of time itself.

So, when you found your prefect room trashed, Fred sobbing in the center of the carnage, you shouted to the conductor to pause, if only for a second, so you could drag him back to safety. Fred had fallen off at a stop and wouldn’t make it back in time. That couldn’t happen.

“Fred?” you called gently, taking a few conscious steps in. You had lied about where you were, and guilt clotted in your throat, made your joints stiffen like rust.

He looked up, and you shattered. His palms had crescent moons imprinted into them, even though his nails were kept short for Quidditch. His eyes were bloodshot, haunted, full of dread. And his body...his body was quivering.

No, that didn’t describe the magnitude of it.

Not when every muscle and tendon and sinew and bone was trembling with a startling force. Not when he tried to stand, but fell back down, because his knees gave out, knocking against the soft carpet so hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice too raw to manage anything louder. “I’m so, so sorry….” and then he was sobbing, dissolved and shrunken into something scraped out with a dull blade, threatened by the sepsis of a broken heart.

You dropped down in front of him, pulling his head up, and it was even worse this close. A vessel in his right eye had popped, taking over the white with blood, deep and dark as a dripping knife glinting in the moonlight.

His hands—his shaky, trembling, always so strong hands—reached for your waist hesitantly. He was never scared, never worried over touching you, not after you assured him a million and one times that he didn’t have to ask.

And so you threw yourself at him. He needed the grounding, the strength, the force to tell him everything was real. Your arms locked around his neck as you tackled him, landing on his back. You straddled him—so unlike the usual manner of activities in that position—and you bent down to press your forehead to his.

It was painful, jarring, but it made a flash of recognition pass through his lens; tears halting, the _world_ halting, to see this moment. Seconds froze and minutes toppled and hours crashed into each other as you stared at him, as you pushed a little harder.

There would be more than one kind of bruise today.

“Where were you?” he cried, loud and reverberating in your ears, but you knew it must have been barely a whisper to the world outside the one you had created. “I couldn’t find you-”

“The library, with Hannah. We were studying for Umbridge’s exam.”

A lie.

One of his hands banded around your waist, making sure you didn’t move, and the other buried in your hair to hold the back of your head, pressing it to his. It wasn’t a comfortable position, not in the slightest, but that thought was a faint murmur compared to the rampage happening in the space where your breaths mingled softly.

“It’s too late. You can’t be out this late, not without a teacher or something.” His sobs prevailed, so much unadulterated fear threaded through them. “I didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m here. Right now, on the floor of my dirty prefect room, during a time that is way past curfew, I’m here.” You pulled back and his arms tightened, but you only needed a little bit of room, just to slip a hand under his jumper, feeling warm and toned skin. You slid all the way to his heart, pressing down over it. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

Fred swallowed, shutting his eyes to soak in the contact. “Don’t go.”

“Never.” And then with your other hand, you grabbed the arm that had curled around your back, bringing it so it was between your bodies. You brought the middle to your lips, pressing a kiss, then snaking it underneath your now-untucked shirt, forgetting all senses of propriety, and placed it over your own heart, palm centered.

And you didn’t move, letting the constant _thump thump_ wash over your self-made bubble, eyes closed. His breathing calmed down eventually as he let it match yours. The sobs were more contained, but every so often, a soft one would break from his lips, to which you’d press a small kiss there.

When his grip on your head loosened enough, you sat up, and Fred did the same, looked dazed and exhausted. You felt the same. But you managed to draw your wand, casting _Reparo_ to fix only your bed.

You didn’t have the energy for anything else.

And then you pulled him up with you, gripping his hand tightly, considering for a moment. “Tea?” you questioned.

He shook his head, staring down at your hand in his curiously, like something was wrong. You silently prayed the glamour would hold up well. Just for the night.

You pulled him to the bed, kicking off your shoes and undoing the top buttons of your shirt, throwing decency away, and let go to move to the center of the bed, laying on your back. Fred followed you, tearing off his jumper and shirt, and laid right on top of you, arms threaded around your waist, head on your chest.

Right over the _thump thump_.

You started by combing through his hair, nails scratching soothingly on his scalp. He was out of tears now, and you felt your own start to rise. You thanked the fact that he couldn’t see your face, even if he was looking at you in the dark room.

Then, your fingers slipped down to his back, scratching and kneading and massaging and rubbing small circles.

“What happened?” you whispered, not wanting to break the almost-peaceful silence.

Air disrupted the hair that had fallen onto your shoulder as he spoke, cool and delicate. “There was a boy,” Fred started, and your hands froze, “just this small, little, tiny boy. He said his name is Michael-”

His voice cracked, and you resumed those tiny caresses. “Take your time. Tell me about Michael.”

“He’s...He’s probably only a first or second year, caught pranking Umbridge for something stupid. It’s just like George and I do—harmless jokes to express ourselves or just have some fun. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Your tears were most definitely falling down, tracing paths on either side of your face, wetting your hair. “Is Michael okay?”

“I don’t know. She made him use that fucking quill,” his voice cut off from abrupt anger, so potent that he rolled off of you, landing on the floor and beginning to pace. “Can’t be more than 13, and even that sounds too old. He’s a fucking boy and she’s fucking marking him with that fucking quill.”

You stood, stopping in front of Fred to grab his face, holding it gingerly. “He is just a boy, but you can’t blame yourself-”

“Why not?” he exploded, tearing away. “They’re all just children-”

“You’re a child-”

“No. No, no, you don’t get it. This is fucking _war_ , and she’s terrorizing children. They have nothing to do with it. They’re pure and young and shouldn’t be raised in the echo for something they had no hand in.”

“Freddie,” you stopped him again, “look at me. We are all children, we have all been raised in a shitty environment and echo of actions that never should have happened. You didn’t know Michael before he had already been punished; you couldn’t have taken any blame or helped anymore than you already have.”

He bit his lip. Shook his head. Looked up and down and dragged one tired hand down his face. Sighed. “He didn’t deserve it. He was crying because it _hurt_. Isn’t that childish? Isn’t that so juvenile? That the reason he was sobbing in the corridor was that his hand was injured?”

He paused when he noticed the tears that had begun to fall, and he brushed them away gently with his thumbs before continuing. “Maybe we are all children trapped in war, but that doesn’t mean that we all must suffer. He won’t forget this—any of it. Nobody could.”

“We will,” you promised. “When we win—because we _are_ winning—we will put this behind us and live the lives that had been snatched away.”

He looked unsure. “How can we make it out when there are people like Umbridge hurting innocent children? When there are too many costs and people at risk?”

“We must acknowledge what we will lose. We have to be willing to give up _our_ last tendrils of purity, because that’s the only way to survive.”

Fred laughed, humorless and dry. “We don’t deserve this—not any of it. You deserved an entire life, unstoppered by battle. And I swear to give that to you, to give you all of it.”

You brushed a kiss against the corner of his mouth; it told him that you would grow from the past. Then, you kissed the other corner; it told him that you would sacrifice your present, live the best you could, but understand what was to come.

Finally, you leaned up and wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing a stronger kiss to his lips; it held every single promise of the future. Every experience and emotion and possibility and potential will be fulfilled.

Fred smiled when you pulled back, tinged in melancholy. He grabbed your hand and brought it to his face, pressing a kiss to it. And you barely had time to pull it behind you as the glamour fell away.

But he saw it. His eyebrows furrowed, and he reached for the wrist quickly. That was fury expanding in his pupils as you backed against the wall, hand still tucked behind you. You didn’t want him seeing it, especially after the way he looked at his own scars. Detest, disappointment, disgust.

And he was too strong as he twisted your arm to be in front of you, the glamour completely gone to unveil the newest marks.

I MUST NOT SULLY MYSELF

“When was this?” Fred shook your hand, freezing as you winced. “You told me you were at the library.”

You pulled the hand away, wiping the drop of blood that reopened. “It’s nothing, Fred.”

“No, don’t lie to me like that. Why did you hide it?”

You bit your tongue, then relented, “I had detention for talking back in class. She was spreading rumors about your family and-”

“You did this because of _me_?” He backed up a few steps, looking like you had carved the words into his own hand. Rage met guilt.

“I wanted to. I can handle myself just fine, so don’t try and coddle me for this. _I_ chose it—it’s just another cost.”

“This shouldn’t be a cost. She said not to ‘sully’ yourself—she means to associate with the Weasleys. Merlin, I’m so stupid.”

He was ready to leave. You could see it, and you cursed every inch of his self-sacrificial Gryffindor instinct. Fred never wanted to cause true harm, not even if it meant he caused nothing at all. “My choice. I did it. Just like Harry and Michael and you and George and everyone else who used that quill. Don’t treat me like a child.”

“That’s what you said we are! You said we are children in the face of war and that it’s wrong, so how can you justify this? _This_ ”—he moved forward and grabbed your wrist—“is wrong. And if I’m the-”

“Stop making this about you, Fred. I’m not leaving until you tell me to, and you _promised_ you wouldn’t leave either.” Your voice broke across the words, but you ignored it.

“I know but-”

“But what? But I need to be protected? A couple of cuts are going to make you pack up and go? That’s not fucking fair.”

His fingers tightened around your wrist. “Can you blame me for wanting to protect you? I know you are perfectly capable of doing it yourself, but I also know that you won’t.”

“Don’t decide what’s good for me.”

His voice softened, every feature losing that anger. Emptying of all emotion that had been the cause of his adrenaline. “If it were you in my shoes, tell me you wouldn’t do the same exact thing. Tell me that after seeing every one of your best friends, after seeing Harry and your own family, after seeing little boys crying in the corridor, tell me then that you wouldn’t do the same exact thing.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered again.

His thumbs came up to brush away the tears again, but this time, his hand stayed. A modicum of comfort. “None of it is. But this _destroys_ me. I want to hex Umbridge into oblivion for it—I probably will.”

“You’ll get expelled in an instant, Freddie,” you scolded, and he laughed, a reprieve from tension.

He pulled you over to the bed, bringing you to lie down, and you suddenly remember both of you were missing shirts. You flushed bright red, slipping under the covers to hide your body.

But Fred reached out and pulled you close to him, back against his chest. He murmured by your ear, “You’re a work of art. Even when you’re screaming at me.”

You giggled, sniffling and wiping away any remaining tears. “Are you going to leave?” Your voice felt weak, youthful and pathetic.

“I won’t, just because I know you’ll give me hell if I do.” His arms tightened, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your spine.

“You’re right, I will.”

“But,” he continued, and you twisted your head to look at him, “I doubt me and George will stay here much longer. We have plans—non-academic ones, if you know what I mean.” He winked, and your laugh brushed the hairs off his forehead.

Slowly spinning back to your initial position, you asked, “Can I be involved? I’m not too keen on staying here either.”

You felt him shake his head. “We need you in school. How could we run a business without at least one graduate?”

You nuzzled back further, leeching his warmth from the sudden chill. “You’re really set on this joke shop, aren’t you?”

“Do you not believe me?” he gasped, faux-hurt.

You lifted the arm resting on top of you, bringing the back of it to rest against your mouth as you spoke. “Of course I do. And I will finish this year—just so you don’t go bankrupt within a month.”

He chuckled, breath hot and spreading tingles as it hit the shell of your ear. “We’ll make you your own line, designated just for you and whatever you like.” His other hand drew circles on your stomach with his thumb, not teasingly, just soothing.

“I’ll take it. Whatever cost it might have, I swear I’ll help run Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.”

That promise of exchange was your first mistake.


End file.
